


Labor Makes A Man

by Hambone



Category: Demon's Souls
Genre: Anal Prolapse, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Disembowlment, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22462456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Yurt kills a knight and has his way with the body.
Relationships: Yurt the Silent Chief/Ostrava of Boletaria|Ariona Allant
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Labor Makes A Man

**Author's Note:**

> A very short something to try and shake my ever present writer's block. Also a gift for a bro! Yurt is a terrible nasty bad man, isn't he? C;

When worn by a serviceable warrior, Latrian armor was incredibly well made. Unlike the heavy Boletarian maille, Latria had perfected smithing lightweight steels that still retained their strength, allowing for more coverage without impeded mobility. Yurt had seen many knights, real soldiers, utilize that mobility to great effect, slicing through scores of demons before being felled, their almost acrobatic movements a thing of beauty.

This boy was not skilled, though, and as he turned the corner Yurt had found it pathetically easy to turn the curve of his shotel inwards and find the soft cotton undershirt between his cuirass and skirting. With a little scream, the knight fell to his knees, dropping his sword and shield at his sides as he reached to cover his slit belly. Yurt stepped out fully from his shadowed crevice and kicked the knight in the side of his helmet, knocking him onto his back. He was already dead and he didn’t know it, blubbering in shock as he tried to right himself, pull back. Dropping onto one knee, Yurt took the knight’s helmet by the muzzle and yanked his head back to expose his throat, but he reached up in his panic and covered himself with his blood soaked gauntlets, trying to beg. Yurt did not listen to his words, nor care to. He had wanted the kill to be quick. His cock was solid behind his cod, insistent.

He reached into the knight’s gut with his free hand and grabbed ahold of anything he could. Living bodies were so slick and vibrant, pulsing between his fingers. The knight screamed horribly, echoing back endlessly in his cramped helmet, probably deafening from the inside.

“O, God,” he prayed, pulling away from his throat to try and dislodge Yurt, “forgive me, mercy, Sweet Lord-!”

The moment his hands left his neck Yurt struck, the point of his second blade enough to slit the left side of the knight’s throat clean through. Blood sprayed from the wound, catching the lip of his gorget. The knight hardly seemed to notice at first, still flailing for the hand that remained inside his belly, and so Yurt twisted that hand, pulling out what mass of intestine he held so the boy could see it. He did, and he tried to cry out again, or perhaps pray more, but all he could do was rattle brokenly as his lungs took in blood with each fevered gasp. Yurt could see his eyes glinting dimly with tears through the slits in his helm. They were blue.

Letting drop his handful, Yurt stood fully so he could begin to undo his belts. The body beneath him was already soaked in gore, steaming in the wet darkness. He wriggled in his puddle like the maggots that would soon make feast of his flesh, wheezing and bleeding. He tried to curl in defensively and the edge of his cuirass crushed his loose guts, ruining him further. Yurt doubted he could feel it much now either way, already so close to perfection. He pulled his cock out with his wet hand, blood cooling on the hard steel of his gauntlet. He wouldn’t touch the knight just yet. He was still moving.

It was the smell that got him most, once the cutting was done. Not that of the intestines or other organs; those were too much a reminder of the base humanity that bore them, stinking, like skin, feces. The blood was his nectar. It was pure, uniform. Even when the corpse was dry and old, with veins congealed to a thick paste, or bloated with water and coming apart in sheets, it remained so. There was no doubt in Yurt’s mind that the metal of blood mirroring that of his blades, armor, the machines of war, was no coincidence. He could feel it now, soaking through his boots, and the muscles of his stomach drew taut and hard, groin throbbing.

The knight still twitched, his gasps grown heavy and moist, but Yurt could wait no longer. He knelt down and kneed the boy’s legs apart, having to relinquish hold on his cock momentarily to grab a handful of his prey’s trousers and slice them through. Gore had seeped down from his stomach beneath his armor and already his crotch was coated, the soft whorls of hair around his prick so clotted that he could not discern their original color. He lifted the knight’s legs up and was met with no resistance but that of the weight of death. He could hardly keep from trembling with desire as his cock bobbed between the warm corpse’s thighs, the life leaving the flesh almost tangibly. His skin was alight, his pulse pounding south.

Resting a limp shin across his pauldron, Yurt pressed a finger between the knight’s buttocks, found his hole. Clean, unresisting, but still tight. Flames licked along his nerve ends as he dug the tip of his finger against the inside of the knight’s ass, digging in deep where he pushed and pushed until the flesh began to split, and the body did nothing. Only the smallest sighs and burbles came forth now, the gasps of a dead man. He could not see, but he was sure those blue eyes had clouded.

Yurt leaned forward to again dip his hand into the cavity of the knight’s stomach, now a bag of blood, and took handfuls of ichor to wet himself. Still too hot to grow thick, blood licked against his cock, spilling across his balls and crawling between his thighs and the clothing that clung tight to them. It would stay with him long after, till he was forced to wash, rubbing his skin raw. He groaned lowly, unable to stop from stroking himself off for a moment as the fantasy caught him, working the fresh blood into his skin till he was sure every inch of his prick was dyed deep red.

Matted nearly black, his asshole looked like a scab when Yurt spread his buttocks to find it. He liked the thought of that, fucking through a wound, something he had done before, but he didn’t want to waste time undressing the knight and he had cut his belly too wide. Blood was not a good lubricant, for it was sticky and dried too quickly, but there was so much here it did its job well enough. He was already dribbling precum and it mixed to a rich pink as he rubbed his head against the knight’s hole, like the color of a royal fabric. His flesh felt soft and clean from what little he could discern, and for a moment he let the two ideas conflate blissfully, thought of wearing this knight like a coat. He pushed in.

Outside he had been soft, but inside was always more so. The organs were like silk, delicate and precious, the lower bowel and intestine clinging to his dick as a maiden’s handkerchief. He was still so hot, almost alive, but without that pulse of movement that ruined the game. Supple, unresisting, less a human than an object, a decoration. Yurt sheathed himself fully, the excess of blood having been caught at the tight rim of the knight’s ass, squeezed back in a wave to the base of his cock where it lapped against him gently. He pulled out and as he did the muscles could not contract to hold him there, letting him slide smoothly till only the head remained inside. It bulged through a thin layer of pliable pink innard that had come out with the harsh drag between them, that beautiful webbing of veins becoming even more brilliant as the tissues stretched unnaturally around him.

Yurt slammed back in, taking the knight’s thighs in each arm and holding him in place to be used. His armor had been well kept, and it shone even in the dim light, reflecting his movements as a black shadow across his chest. Rivulets of blood traced patterns in the fluting of the steel, and had he the ability Yurt would have licked them up, tasted the pure essence of death as he fucked into his corpse. He had been young, this one, barely even touched by war, if at all. Maybe he had not been a soldier in the first place, merely some boy who had donned armor to try and protect his homeland, his family, himself, thinking so grandly of the battles he had heard about as a child. How pathetically he had fallen. Yurt was incredibly lucky to have been the one to find him first, because it was rare to have a treat such as this in a world as grotesque as the one they found themselves in. Had he thought of his lost dreams, as he choked on his own gore? Had he lamented over a waiting lover, an incomplete promise? Yurt hoped he had. He wished he had, that Yurt could find this tender maiden, this nurturing family, could have fucked the knight in front of them. To kill them one by one, taking each corpse at his leisure while those who remained alive watched, knowing they would be next. He could have stretched it over days, a long, slow death for each, draining his balls till they hurt.

He hunkered over the body, fucking into him hard. The quicker his pace, the more loudly their flesh slapped together, echoed by the jangling of maille and plate, the slosh of fluids from his split belly. The smell was unimaginable. Yurt’s own armor was so cold, so cold that when he got close to the knight his bowels gave off visible steam, their heat wet and palpable to him even though layers. He wanted to take the knight’s cuirass aside and split his ribs, take his heart in his own two hands and crush it, devour it. Yurt’s cock was throbbing, each thought of desecration bringing him closer and closer. There was so much he could do, so many ways to destroy this young body. Too much, in fact; if only there were some way to bring him back, again and again, kill him one more time, take him apart in all the ways he dreamed about.

The clamor of his movements rang loud around them, almost as loudly as the little knight’s screams. If any demons had been left there, they might have come for him, found Yurt intertwined with this body. Would they have even recognized him as a man, or would he had been accepted with open arms as one of their kin? It was comical to imagine them doing as they would to any other human upon finding him, inadvertently avenging the knight’s senseless death by their blunt nature. It was almost a shame he had already killed everything here, everyone.

His breathing was hard and ragged, opened mouthed. He wanted to see the face of death. Reaching up with unsteady hand he fumbled at the pins of the knight’s visor. His hands had dried and grown gummy and clumsy now, but he managed to pop them free bit by bit, sliding up the beaver until he could see the man he’d killed. Like an angel haloed in silver, he was revealed. Pale with death, mouth hung open in a long ended scream, eyes wide. He’d grown slack as the blood left him, adding an erotic delicacy to his horrified expression, like a doll. All down his chin was dark with vomit, but his eyes were clear, empty, moist with unshed tears. Yurt did not recognize him, but he had not expected to. He thrust so hard something down below split, came in and out with him as he worked, but he didn’t look down to discover what. He was entranced by the slow bobbing of the knight’s face.

It didn’t take long for him to finish, not like that, not with that perfect little death mask staring glazed into his eyes. Yurt felt it coming and tried to brace himself, grasping at the knight’s waist, but the flesh there split more and more with his fumbling and the skin gave way enough to let loose a flood of collected fluids all over the ground beneath them. He had to plant his hand firm anyways, in the muck, in the nest of his guts, because he was cumming so fast and so hard his world was rocking like that face, up and down, pushed by the pounding in his loins. He plunged them chest to chest, let himself be smeared, heat boiling in his groin without release. He pushed hard, biting his own lips in lieu of the corpse’s, and then it burst.

Yurt came quickly in hard, short pulses. Everything was so wet. Even after he was spent he sat there, clutching the knight to him like a lover, cock twitching every so often with another shock of orgasm. He felt the body beneath him creak, crushed by his weight, melting them together. He hoped his death had hurt.

It took what felt like hours for him to pry them apart. Slowly he peeled himself off, scraping the rolls of intestine that clung to him away. When he pulled out the knight’s intestine came with him some, torn and plastered to his softening cock with a mixture of cum and ichor. He had to wrap his hand around himself and shuck the flesh away carefully, shuddering with a deep and sincere pleasure that made his balls contract in an empty desire to pump forth again. Afterwards he stared at the red sleeve and considered bringing some with him, to have himself off into again at some later point. The material was so delicate however that Yurt could not imagine it would withstand his travels.

Like that, the magic was gone. He had many, many more kills to make, and if he could not bring this dead knight with him then he was useless, nothing more than trash. Yurt put his cock away and found his shotels, in need of a good cleaning. There would be other beautiful bodies to fuck, and his work had only just begun.  
  


* * *

Ostrava had awoken in the Nexus. He knew where he was from myth and legend alone, and it should have brought him great wonderment. This was a place that spoke of second chances, of ancient magics, and it was instrumental to the history of his family and his bloodline. Still, he could not bring himself to get to his feet and explore for a great while yet. Death had shocked him deaf and dumb, for the moment at least.

Even when he did rise, there was a horror in him he had never felt before, and could not shake, and for a very long while thereafter he felt cold hands inside his belly.


End file.
